Where Love Is
by toastedcheese
Summary: Arwen revisits Imladris's oldest library and discovers an aging manuscript testifying to forgotten love. MaedhrosFingon.
1. Prologue

**Where Love Is**

Prologue

There were many books in the house of Elrond, and many libraries, and Arwen Undómiel made no pretense of knowing them all. As soon as she was sure she had found the very last repository of manuscripts in Imladris, a new shelf of books would materialize (having been on loan for the past few hundred years), or a door that she had always thought led to a broom closet would turn out to house a five-hundred volume collection of agricultural records.

There was one library, however, of which Arwen had always known, and which no one could mistake for a broom closet: her father's private library. It resided in an innocuous-looking wooden box in his study and contained a series of large, aged leather envelopes, some narrow, others heavy with their contents. Her father had shown them to her as soon as she was old enough to know a little history and careful enough to be trusted with them, and even at that young age, the library's contents had astounded her.

Each envelope contained a new treasure: a record book of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, before its fall--a scroll in a strange tongue, which her father told her was a version of the story of Aldarion and Erendis, written down by the daughter of one of Tar-Ancalimë's handmaidens--a collection of poetry, with illuminated letters and illustrations, brought from the Blessed Realm itself. Her father watched as she paged through the ancient documents, answering her questions and imploring her to be gentle--though the books had been carefully preserved, they were still fragile.

She had smiled at his warnings as she lifted yet another manuscript out of its envelope. This one was a slender volume, and showed its age as none of the others had: its pages were very yellowed and in some places torn, its binding was altogether gone, and it had no cover. On the first page, in faded letters, was a brief note, written in a bold hand: _This book was given to me by_--

"Not that one," said her father suddenly.

She looked up at him, surprised. "I promise to be careful with it," she said.

"I am sure that you would be. But it is not a book for a child. You may read it when you are older, if you like."

Her father rarely forbade her to do things, and so his request took on a certain gravity in Arwen's young mind. Besides, there was a strange sorrowful look on his face, which made her think that maybe she did not _want_ to read this book. "All right," she said, and returned it to its envelope. Her father took it and put it back into the box, and they spoke of it no more.

After that, Arwen forgot about the book. There were more interesting things to wonder about, like what her mother would bring back for her from that season's journey to Lórien, and how best to grow irises, and how her brothers could guess at the weather from the wind. It was, in fact, not until nearly three thousand years had passed, when ill tidings from the East had recalled her to Imladris and a rainy morning found her wondering on such secrets of the world, that she remembered the old library at all, and wondered at the mystery contained within the almost-forgotten memory. What could have been in that book, that her father would not have her read it?

Her curiosity sparked, she finished the morning's weaving and passed through the house to her father's study. He was not there, and after some rummaging, she located the drawer where the old manuscripts resided. The storage box had been changed for a new one, but it was of the same construction, and within lay the familiar envelopes, only a little worse for wear considering the years. She went through them carefully, and at last located the narrow book, ancient and coverless, in its leather wrapping.

She held it in her hands for a while, thinking of the things that had changed since last she had seen it. Of how _she_ had changed. She was older, of course, a tall woman in long skirts, self-possessed, graver perhaps. Much wiser, at any rate, in the ways of the world. Beautiful, people said. Motherless.

And now, betrothed, to Aragorn, bound up in a love that would lead her to a strange doom, whichever way fortune fell.

She took the envelope and went to her chambers, where the light of a wide window and a modicum of privacy might be afforded to her. Taking a seat beside the open window, listening to the sound of the rain falling upon the gardens and the noise of the surging Bruinen beyond, she felt an eagerness rise up within her. She opened the envelope and took out the book. The bold, assured hand of the first page lay before her. She wondered what hand had traced those words, and where fate had led it. Finally, she stopped wondering, and, leaning back in her chair, began to read.

_This book was given to me by Hírvegil, steward of Hithlum, who safeguarded it for his king, that it might be given to me in the event of his death. I confirm that it is in the hand of Findekáno son of Nolofinwë, who in Middle-earth was called Fingon, and that all it says is the truth._

To its contents, I have only one thing to add:

I loved him.

At the bottom of the page was signed the name of the eldest son of Fëanor.

She paused for a while, thinking on these words and what they might signify.

Then she turned the page.


	2. 1

1.

spring, 451

I do not know what I intend to write in the pages of this book. Certainly it is not for others to read, unless they come upon it in the long-distant future, if all we have built here perishes, so that only our writings survive us. Sometimes I fear that this will indeed come to pass, and perhaps I write in part that there be a record of the things that I have experienced, for they are, as far as I know, unprecedented among the Eldar, and should not be forgotten. Perhaps, in that future, one who has known similar things will read these words, and feel less solitary, as we are solitary.

But I do not write for my contemporaries. The thoughts imparted here shall be too private, and too roughly articulated, and moreover they concern another whose trust I will not breach. Instead, let this be as a journal, a history that deals not with the great and glorious, but the private and intimate. A book of tender secrets.

But I get ahead of myself. First I must explain, in plainest terms, what has befallen to occasion my writing this.

I have never been drawn to marriage, for though I have been close to women in friendship, and sometimes thought them beautiful, there has never been a maiden whom I desired to court or wed. I thought this was my temperament: for though I am not a cold person, it is not wholly unknown for one of the Eldar to live a solitary life, without spouse or heir.

Another thing: in my childhood, my sister and I passed many hours in the company of the younger sons of Fëanor. As I grew older, our friendship cooled, but always did I admire their eldest brother, Maitimo, his skill and strength and eloquence. Well was he named: he was tall and lean as a young hart, and his smile was like the sun. As I grew older, we became fast friends, as brothers, indeed. And yet at times I sensed a difference, one I could not articulate, in the way that I was drawn to him. We were not closer than other friends, but sometimes I felt a strangeness with him, almost a shyness, so that his company was a special boon, and the sight of his person likewise a grace, and one to which I felt I could not adequately respond. Now that I look back upon those days, I find that there were others who made me feel thus, but these I was able to disregard in a way that I could not Maedhros, who was so often with me. Still, I did not think too much on it, and then griefs came between us, and he did things that even now I cannot wholly forgive: following his father, even as I followed mine, and both of us giving ear to the deceits that I now see proceeded from the Enemy.

Now, in Middle-earth, our friendship has been renewed, and he has recovered in body, if not in spirit, from the torment of Thangorodrim, and it is not often, even in these dark times, that one is not a guest in the other's land. Thus have we been reunited, and it is by this reunion that, in the past week, my life has been changed forever.

For this season, Maedhros has come to stay with me at Barad Eithel, and two days ago, as we walked together in the mountains, he stopped, and took my hand, and kissed me.

I was so bewildered by this that I did not know what to say, and he too was flustered, and apologized, saying he did not know what had possessed him to act thus. We parted, but as time passed my feelings became clearer, and I discovered that I had not disliked the kiss, and so I looked back upon all my history with Maedhros and found I had loved not as a friend only, but as a lover.

Indeed, I still do not know how these things may be. It is thought, though never exactly articulated, that men by nature turn in love to women, and women thus to men. And perhaps men and women generally have somewhat different tendencies, but I can no longer believe that love is thereby dictated. It is a strange enigma, and perhaps Maedhros and I are alone in our leanings, but I cannot believe this invalidates them. So we concluded upon meeting again, and discussing long our feelings, and divulging our love. It was a great relief, that conversation. Maedhros, who is so dear to my heart--to give that dearness a name--to call him beloved--it is an unlooked-for bliss, a comfort and a promise. It is a strange, new thing, and yet truth rests upon it.

We have made no promises, holding it too soon and sudden to complicate vows of love with vows of fidelity. But when we know the time is come, we will make vows under Ilúvatar, and Maedhros shall be my spouse, and I his.

It will not be easy. War by necessity occupies us, and distance and time will separate us, so that our meetings may be brief and precious. Moreover, we have decided for the time being to keep this to ourselves--we fear few will understand, and there is too much between our houses, that this trouble be added to it. How long we can conceal it, or will desire to do so, I do not know. Will those who know us well see our love in our countenances? What will they think?

It is foolish to worry over these questions. I, who never hoped to find love, have found it. The world has not changed, but I am less alone in it.


	3. 2

2.

spring, 451

He left today. Before he went, we embraced for a long time, and I delighted in it. I thought it would be difficult to accustom myself to these embraces and carresses--but holding Maedhros in my arms is the most natural thing in the world. I asked him to give me a lock of his hair. It lays upon my desk, beside this book. The most beautiful shade of red I know, touched by the colors of the autumn leaves, brown and orange and crimson mingled in its strands.

I do not know how much I shall write here in the future. Peace we have for the present, but the Enemy will not sleep forever, if ever he has.


	4. 3

3.

summer, 453

Oh, my absurd, lovely Maitimo. I received a letter from him yesterday; I quote it in part:

_I think of you constantly. Everything reminds me of Fingon: the light of the stars, the voice of the water, the black of a crow's wing. Do not name me idolator: that your loveliness and strength and wisdom exist within Arda's walls seems to me greatest credit to the Powers, and to the One above them from whom proceeded your too precious spirit. And I, who have seldom felt gratitude to the gods._

I do not know whether I am sleeping or awake, for you are in all of my dreams, so that they seem the more real.

He went on, with much pretty poetry, to bemoan the bleakness of his world without me--and, yet, what a delight, to think that we would meet again, and end his solitude! I thought myself infatuated, but indeed my lover gives new meaning to the word. He is his father's son indeed, and I do not mean this as criticism: this spirit that burns within him only makes him dearer to me. Nor do I fear that this will toward love will move him to rash action. But, Maedhros, truly, save your words, and give me all yourself.


	5. 4

4.

spring, 456

My father is dead.

The fighting has not halted, though the brunt of it is over. I do not think it will ever wholly end.

He came here, to me. He said that he was come to discuss the war, but I knew the truth. He ought not to have come, but I could not rebuke him. I have seen him on the battlefield, aflame, half-fey with the memory of his anguish--and yet how gentle he was, last night. He came to me, held me in his arms till morning. It is the first time we have slept in one bed, though our sleep was chaste. I did not weep. I am too tired to weep. He should not have come.

I am less alone with him, but there are others whose presence I crave, now that the shock is over: my brother. My sister. My dearest mother... does she know, I wonder? No messages pass across the sundering Sea, not even word of death. Has her own heart told her that her husband no longer walks upon the earth?

But most of all I long for my father, my king. Your broken body, and for what? Yet I understand what compelled you: to name evil, call it coward, fight it outright. If I had stood where you stood, lord of a broken people, would I not have done the same?

Now things are still and certain. There is no longer any question lingering between Maedhros and I, but this is no time for marriage. Everything is stagnation. Everything is memory.


	6. 5

5.

autumn, 458

He will not allow me to touch his right arm near the wrist. I feel a fool for not noticing it until now. It is my own shyness that is to blame--I did not like to call attention to the missing hand, and so I avoided it, not out of repulsion or embarrassment, but an overdeveloped sense of propriety.

But today, forgetting myself, I kissed his arm near the wrist, and he gave me a look like a wounded animal, fearful and furious at once, and turned away from me.

I know the anguish he has been through. Was it not I who cut the living hand from his body, in the choice between agony and death? And I know the injury that has been done to his spirit, the anguish of memory that lies beneath his proud will. Would I could take that memory upon myself, and the wound also. But they are Maedhros's to bear, and I thought he was bearing them--his strength regained, his resolve firm.

Yet he will not let me kiss his arm.

"What, should I remove the rest of the arm, if you find it so unsuitable for my caresses?" I asked then, angrier than I had a right to be.

He did not answer, but fell upon the nearest seat, still not facing me.

"I do not like you to see me like this," he murmured after a minute.

"Like what?" I asked, sitting down beside him. "Without the hand that I myself severed? Or ashamed of it, of the mark of your survival? For that it is all it is to me, a mark, a reminder. Nothing can mar you in my eyes, Maitimo."

"Maitimo," he repeated. I can still see the ghost of a smile that flit over his face. "There is a reason I no longer use that name, Findekáno."

"What then would you prefer? Would you rather be whole and dead?"

"You know I would not. If that were so, I would have perished long before you reached me on the peak. Do not think me ungracious, Fingon. You risked your life for me, and the sacrifice means more to me than I can say. Alas, gratitude is no antidote for grief."

"Nor is anything else. There is only bravery in the face of grief. And I wish you, brave Maitimo, would be so brave as to bear the well-meant kiss of one who loves you." I rued these words at once. "But I do not ask you to bear them for my sake only. If such caresses give you more pain than pleasure--"

"Hush," said Maedhros. He kissed both my own wrists and pulled me close to him. Yet he made no sign that I should take his interruption as a sanction.

A fact I shall have to accept, then. Who would have thought that my kisses might inflict injuries as surely as steel? Yet I would not do him harm--above all I would not do him harm. I will not forget myself again.


	7. 6

6.

spring, 462

Well, it is done. We are married, consecrated and sworn and united in body. I will, out of common politeness and respect for my beloved, not elaborate overmuch on this last item, only to say that it adds to my concerns about divulging our relationship--the curiosities others may have concerning the matter. Such things are not much spoken of much among our people, though I cannot comment on practice. There is much we have had to learn for ourselves. Maedhros takes a grim humor in using the Men of his land as an example; they are not faithful as we are, and their men will sometimes satisfy their desires in such ways. I do not know if any of them are like us, drawn by affection as well as desire. It makes for a strange parallel, and though we know we are not like them, the commonalities trouble us a little. Anyway, to put it bluntly, I would rather not have the whole host of Hithlum wondering about the things that go on in my bedchamber.

Yet no one has noticed a difference in us, or if they have, they have not spoken. Truly, there is no one here close enough to me that would concern themselves with such a change; counselors and captains are not apt to ask questions about a king's personal business. So many who were dear to me, who would have seen it, are dead. I do not know yet if we will speak of it to anyone. It is not fear that stays our speech so much as practicality; the waters of our time need no more troubling.

But all this is unimportant, trivial. Perhaps I am still a little afraid of using words to express what has befallen. Has there ever been a word beautiful enough to match the beauty and fragility and peril of what we have found? I have loved him and do love him. He is my beloved, and I his. And now we two are something beyond duality, beyond mere relation.

Two trees, silver and gold, blend into a single light. Then light fades, and again they are simply themselves. How can so few letters express the weight of such a universe?


	8. 7

7.

autumn, 466

I am at Himring now, and was here when word of Thingol's daughter arrived: that she has stood before the Enemy and returned alive. It has been a weary year, watching from afar as that strange affair went from bad to worse... and now this! A spark of hope, however faint. Morgoth assailed, his pride wounded, his might shown to be finite. A Silmaril, not secured, but at least out of his clutches. It lifts all of our hearts, to know that our Enemy is not omnipotent. (That Finrod did not die in vain.)

Maedhros is unsettled and does not sleep well. He, more than any other, is heartened by Lúthien's victory, and speaks of this as a time for a renewal of our cause. But the matter of the Silmaril troubles him, as does the conduct of Celegorm and Curufin. They are here now, and although he does not approve of what they have done, he will not turn away his brothers. On my own part, I cannot bring myself to be so forgiving. I have not spoken with either of them and do not dine at their table. This, and the matter of the Silmaril, lies like a darkness between Maedhros and me, a veil more impenetrable for our silence. What is there to say? I knew who Maedhros was when first I loved him, knew his brothers, what promises he had made. If one of my siblings so transgressed, would not I offer them shelter?

A bright thing amidst the disarray: Maedhros, a faraway look in his eyes, revealed the one thing that especially delighted him about the news.

"And what is that?" I asked him.

"That there is love between a Sindarin maiden and this son of Men," he said. "Ours is not the only baffling, impossible romance between the Mountains and the Sea." And he smiled, and embraced me. "You know in your heart that we are not alone."

"I know nothing of the sort," I said. "But I do hope. I trust that suffices."

Maedhros laughed, he who laughs so rarely now, and the sound of his laughter was like a cool salve against the wounds of memory, and I rejoiced to hear the sound. Even as I record these things now, I am less afraid for the both of us.


	9. 8

8.

summer, 467

I have just returned from Nargothrond.

Galadriel knows everything.

It did not occur as I expected. Five years have passed since we are espoused, and certainly we have spoken of ending this foolish secrecy. Silence does not suit us; to conceal the very fabric of our lives from others is like covering a candle and trying to see by its light. But we have had other concerns, and even revealing the truth to a few would be a difficult matter. There are so many whom we doubt we could confide in, and so many whom, once confidants, have perished. Of those who remain, I thought first of my cousin, who is wise in such matters and fair in her judgments. But I have not seen her, so rarely does she leave Doriath, and thus the matter had not been broached.

This season, however, we met in Nargothrond, and within a day of my arrival she had taken me aside and asked me, very gently, if there was anything I would like to share with her. With prompting, she explained that there had been some quiet conversation among those closer to me about the change in my face and manner, and it had been concluded that I had taken a wife who did not dwell close to Barad Eithel, and that, for some reason, I had chosen to conceal the matter from others.

I will confess I laughed at this deduction, and was moreover relieved that this change in my life had not been wholly overlooked. Then, perhaps a little foolheartedly, I told her all that had passed between Maedhros and myself.

She listened, of course, in her intent, knowing way, her eyes always upon my face, and always compassionate. But the words that followed questioned what I have so long accepted as truth: could I be sure that this was not some twisting of my friendship by the Enemy? Would I be content with this secret love, never to be wholly honest with the world? Never to have children?

I came to harsh words with her then, but soon she perceived I was earnest in my feelings, and asked me to forgive her for her speech--it was only that she was bewildered by this unexpected divulgence, so unprecedented and incomprehensible to her. "But I see now - though I can scarcely tell how - that your love is a true one," she said, "and as one who has also loved, I will doubt you no longer." Then her nephew came into the room, and we did not speak of it again.

I have thought for a long time on the things she said, matters which Maedhros and I have ourselves discussed. We have known a few who have been married and chosen to live childless, but it is a rare thing, and indeed, physical love is held to be intrinsically tied to the bearing of children, so that after a time, we desire it no longer. How will this be, with me and my spouse, and (as Galadriel's objections implicitly questioned), why would Ilúvatar will it that a fruitless love such as ours be?

Maedhros, more than I, sees it as a foolish question--it is not wrong to be childless, and had we not espoused, such would we be anyway. And should we desire children, he reminds me, there may be a time when war ends and the casualties of war must be dealt with--including the raising of orphans.

Apprehending my objections, he added, "And yes, I know that all this presupposes a broken Arda--but this does not invalidate such a vocation, which could not have been had in an unblemished world. A fighter may be useless in times of peace, and a healer likewise, but this does not cast a shadow upon them, or lessen their glory when they have the opportunity to ply their trade."

An odd trade, this. And yet I know a woman, a daughter of Men, who is wife to a vassal of mine. They call her barren, for her body will not bear her children. Yet I always see her with young ones, her sister's children, she says, and there is a light in her face when she is with them. I suppose she has some sorrow--but perhaps this world was not formed that we live without some measure of sorrow. I do not know. We may speculate endlessly upon what might have been, had not the Shadow fallen upon us: but to what end? Rather let us turn to this world: one of great sorrows, but also of great joys.


	10. 9

9.

winter, 470

Maitimo--

I hate your Oath. I do not pretend to feign surprise that you were capable of swearing it. I know you too well for that. But its legacy is cruel: forever binding us to the past, with all its wounds and anguishes, perpetuating with words what we might have conquered with time. And for what? The Silmarils, created things, fair indeed, but temporal. Jewels and a dead man's grief.

I want to love you, but another man comes between us: a Son of Fëanor, proud and rash, bent on vengeance. A man who has sworn his life away with words binding as the vows of our love, invoking curse, not blessing. When I reach out for you, it is this man whom I find, this living anachronism who masquerades as my beloved, and moves him to ill deeds.

Swear a new oath, one I can swear beside you. Other memory consumes your thoughts, I know: the cliffs of Thangorodrim like a purgatory of the mind, a place that neither of us shall ever truly leave. You, who suffered so excruciatingly, and I who beheld your dangling frame in anguish, who cut through sinew and bone to free you, and felt the pain I inflicted in the core of my own heart. If we are to war, let this be our rallying oath--to avenge you and all of us, and to ruin the prisons of the Enemy forever.

Beloved... I wonder what will come of all this--Doriath and the sons of Fëanor, you and I--and cannot find an answer.


	11. 10

10.

spring, 471

Last night I dreamed of him. We were in Aman together, holding hands as we walked through the woods, and the hand I held was his right one, restored (though I did not wonder at it), and on it he wore a gold marriage band. And I looked, and I wore one too. We laughed together about some joke, and he kissed me, and I was content. Then the conversation turned, and I spoke of swords, and he looked at me blankly. And I remembered then that swords had not yet been invented, and laughed again at my own absurdity.

But swords _have_ been invented, and tomorrow we take our stand against Morgoth, my beautiful, prideful, stalwart, ruthless Maitimo and I. I feel as if I should fear, and indeed there shall be loss, and I cannot say for certain that we will achieve our ends. But we will fight, and that is enough. Now I go to meet with my men, and make preparations. I will see him soon in battle, and it will be a joyous meeting.

_Here the book ended._


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

When Arwen returned to the study, she found her father sitting at his desk. He was writing something.

"Hello, Undómiel," he said, looking up at her and smiling. "Have you had a pleasant morning?"

"I have had an interesting morning," she said, taking a seat by his side and peering over his shoulder. "Is that a letter?"

"Yes, to Lórien," he said. "Lord Celeborn has sent me news, and I am replying with such counsel as I can think to give. The darkness around Dol Guldur is spreading again. I am glad you returned when you did." He glanced at the envelope that she was holding. "And you? Borrowing from my library?"

"Yes," she said. "For there was a book you forbid me to read when I was young, and now that I am older, I found myself curious to know the reason for your command."

Her father set down his pen, gave her a long look. "Yes," he said. "The old family history. Few have read that volume. What did you think of it?"

"I was moved," she said. "And bewildered, for it is a strange story, and I have not heard another like it. How did it come to you? Why is it not remembered?"

"There are few alive now who would be interested in such a tale," said her father. "I mean those who would be interested in the private histories of the Noldorin princes--whether or not it would interest others due to its particular subject matter, I know not, though I have my suspicions. And there are hardly any to retell it, apart from the words in this volume, which have not been copied. I know what passed between Fingon and Maedhros, as does your grandmother, and a half-dozen others who have read this book themselves. I suppose we have never felt inclined to pass it on verbally. I think it is better to read it for yourself, in silence. It is an intimate tale, after all. I think they would have preferred it this way.

"As for how I came across the manuscript--sheer accident, you might say. For some reason, after Maedhros's death, his possessions ended up in my hands, along with some things his brother left behind. The book was among them. It would have been more rightly given to Celebrimbor, but he was disinclined to inherit his uncles' things, and I was pleased to have the book."

Arwen looked down at the envelope, imagining her father, younger than she, holding this book in his hands, marvelling as he read. "What was he like?" she asked suddenly.

Her father thought for a while before answering. "Proud," he said finally. "Intimidating, to my brother and me. I thought at the time that he did not like children. Now I see that it was old dreams that distanced him from us. We were the children he and Fingon might have cared for together. I think, also, that the memory of my mother's brothers still haunted him, and drove him both to regret and inaction in his relations with us." He shrugged. "But you know what he was like as well as I do. You read Fingon's journal."

"That is only another impression," she said. "It was a very tender rendering, yet I wish I could know more about him. About both of them." She laughed. "That love letter! It reminded me--"

But she remembered to whom she spoke and fell silent. Her father pretended not to notice and, when she said no more, went back to his letter. Surely he knew what had stilled her speech, whose memory Maedhros's tender words had conjured up within her. Yet she could not speak of Aragorn before him, not of love at least, when her words had such capacity to wound. Maedhros and Fingon had counted themselves lucky, to have Beren and Lúthien as their contemporaries. Oh, luckier still, to be sundered by custom only, and not by doom. If she did not love Aragorn so dearly, happily would she give leave for her heart to turn toward women, rather than bear this love for a mortal Man.

She put down the envelope before her father. "Thank you," she said.

Her father looked up, smiled. "It is you whom I thank, dearest. Thank you for reminding me of an old story. It is many years since I have gone through that volume. Perhaps I shall read it again this afternoon. Now, alas," and he motioned to the half-written letter, "more pressing matters are at hand, which take precedent over the memory of old forgotten love."

She smiled back and kissed the top of his head. "You had better finish your letter," she said. "I will be in my chambers."

Walking back from her father's study, she thought about what she had read. Who would have guessed that two of the brightest figures in the history of her people had carried this brighter secret within themselves for so many years, even to their deaths? She thought of Fingon, slain in the Nirnaeth, and of Maedhros, carrying on without him, hardening with despair and plunging into the earth when the pursuit of the Silmarils proved to be in vain. Arwen knew her history: they had not met in battle, as Fingon had hoped. Instead, their armies had been sundered by Morgoth's hand, and Fingon had perished. How cruel, the theft of that last meeting before death.

Had they met since? She could not say what had become of Maedhros's spirit once his body had made such an end. Could it have renewed itself in Mandos? Might Fingon and Maedhros be together now, whole and content at last, beneath the trees of Aman?

She would likely never know. The fate to which she had tied herself was a different one from theirs. Yet as she entered her empty chamber and took a seat beside the window, she, too, was glad that Fingon and Maedhros had loved.

From her seat, she looked out upon the valley, the rain and the quiet gardens. She wondered where Aragorn was, what weary task he now undertook, and silently set her voice out across the distance, in prayer for his safety. A moment later, she was sure she need pray no longer. Let fate bring what it must: whose doom, in all the history of Arda, had not been strange, whether marred by the stain of the Enemy or woven by the hands of love?

Love weaves strange patterns in us indeed, thought Arwen. Some are so novel that we hesitate to speak of them at all, save in a whisper. Surely it would be easier to deny them, to flee from the perils that accompany such heights. Surely it would be easier not to love you, Estel, if such denial were possible.

Arwen watched the rain rejoin the Bruinen and rush past her window. Soon enough it would come to the Sea, to the place where, beneath the waters, a Silmaril was buried. Love did not rest beside it. Love was where fingertips had brushed against pages. Love was here, in a darkened room, with the woman who had read the words.

* * *

Notes

Maitimo is Maedhros's mother-name and means "well-formed one."

Findekáno is Fingon's father-name.

Tolkien tells us in the unpublished mostly-canonical Laws and Customs Among the Eldar in _Morgoth's Ring_ that Elves lose the urge to have sex once they have been been married for some time and have presumably borne children. He also tells us that "the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed."


End file.
